And now you can arrive in Kilifi by yacht. Not the sailing boats you sometimes see at sunset, but those floating palaces that make the dhows look like children's toys from another era. You park it in the creek as if it were a Range Rover at Naivas, get off, go on safari to the Masai Mara in a private plane from the Vipingo golf club and then set off again for Madagascar.
The new frontier of African tourism, piracy permitting.

So, on any given morning, the Kenyan coast woke up to a new giant on the sea. It is called SALT, a name from an American film or a vegan bistro, and it sparkled in the Indian Ocean sun like a promise too big for these waters. The fishermen stared at it open-mouthed, the kids filmed it, and social media exploded with selfies with the yacht in the background, as if they had seen a UFO or the future that does not await them.

It seems that the floating spaceship — 62 metres of steel, aluminium and secrets — had arrived for a technical stopover, but for a moment some believed it was carrying weapons or had been seized. But no: just six foreign tourists with legally registered guns, probably more out of fear of pirates than the prices of the lodges.

The authorities in Kilifi, more accustomed to bureaucratic than maritime practices, clarified that it was a routine customs check. No trafficking, no mysteries, just the usual “missing permit”. But in the meantime, SALT became a legend, a trending topic, a neighbourhood event on an oceanic scale.

The yacht, built in Italy by the CRN shipyard, is a concentration of what is now called “sustainable luxury”: engines that pollute less, swimming pools that filter the water, and technological silence so as not to disturb the dolphins. Inside, there are reportedly lounges with mood-adjustable lighting, beds that rock you like waves and a Jacuzzi for every existential doubt. The price? Around €65 million, roughly equivalent to the entire budget of Kilifi County in a good year.

The name of the owner remains a mystery. Some swear it is a Gulf prince, others an Asian tycoon, others simply a rich man who did not want to appear in Forbes. But here, along the coast, it matters little: what remains is the reflection of that steel giant in the murky waters of the creek, like a mirage too clear to be ignored.

Some call it progress, others a “gentle invasion”. Some dream of becoming the tender's driver, others of selling him fresh fish, and others simply shake their heads, thinking that even the sea is now for rent.

Meanwhile, Kilifi looks at the stretch of water and wonders what remains of its salt — the real kind, the kind that dries in the sun, not the kind called “SALT” that costs more than a collective dream.